Too Late
by Lady Invidia
Summary: Follows the fallout of Sherlock running away and faking his own death after the events of 'The Great Game' to pursue Moriarty. How will it effect John? Will Sherlock ever come back after realising how much John really means to him? Eventual slash.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I own nothing, I'm not making any money, and the recent adaptation belongs to BBC, and the Moff.

Warnings: pre-slash.

Summary: Mycroft confronts Sherlock about running away after the events of 'The Great Game'.

A/N: Currently a standalone drabble but I have plans to maybe turn it into a full story. Any ideas/constructive criticism is most appreciated.

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><p><span>Too Late<span>

"For someone who prides himself on his observational skills Sherlock, sometimes you really are blindingly oblivious."

"Fuck off Mycroft."

Mycroft clicked his tongue and swung his umbrella under his arm.

"I do wish you wouldn't swear so, Sherlock. You know how much it used to distress Mummy."

Sherlock merely clenched his teeth and carried on walking. He was not up to playing games right now. Not tonight. But as he turned around the corner of the dark alley a hand grabbed his upper arm. Sherlock's mind pondered for a moment that for a large man Mycroft was surprisingly nimble on his feet.

"I know what you're planning Sherlock. Don't do it. It can only end badly"

Sherlock pulled his arm out of Mycroft's grip "You may have the government convinced you are omniscient Mycroft, but you're not. You don't know everything."

And with that Sherlock hurried back to 221b Baker Street, making sure he didn't turn around so Mycroft would be able to read his face and see how deeply his words had affected his composure. After all, if Sherlock was honest with himself, he knew Mycroft's warning was true. But, as Sherlock had watched John lying on the cold hospital bed unable to so much as breathe by himself without the aid of various machines, Sherlock knew it was the only option. And it had to be tonight, he'd already wasted enough time sneaking into the hospital to check on John. If Sherlock was to catch the trail before it went cold he needed to act swiftly. And if he had to pretend he had died to do so? Well, without John by his side he might as well be dead anyway. Pity he had realised that fact too late.

The End.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Didn't expect to write ch2 yet, but couldn't resist…

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><p>Chapter 2 – In which Mycroft plots.<p>

The room was pleasant, as hospital rooms went. The white walls, floor and ceilings that would normally result in Mycroft having a horrific headache, had been tempered somewhat by the rows of colourful flowers lining the window sill and overflowing from the two bedside tables. John Watson was a well-liked man, there was just something about him that put people at ease and made them forget that he was perfectly capable of shooting a man dead from more than 200 yards. Some kind nurse had also lined the wall straight opposite the bed with all his get well soon cards. Combined with a comfy leather armchair that Mycroft had sequestered away from some Doctor's office, the room exuded a comforting, homely feel; perfectly suitable considering its present occupant.

It had been a week since Mycroft had confronted Sherlock in that dark alleyway not far from Baker Street. Every day since he had made it his duty to come by John Watson's room and sit for a while. His mother, if she was still alive, would no doubt have said it was his way of atoning for not being able to stop Sherlock from leaving. But Mycroft knew such guilt would be pointless. Sherlock had, and always would be, the most stubborn man alive. He knew going that his words would change nothing, but it had been his familial duty and so he had gone anyway. No, his Florence Nightingale resemblance was instead the beginning of his plan to clean up the mess his little brother had left behind. And so enter player two, stage left.

"He's gone sir?"

Mycroft noted her word choice; gone could be flexible, chameleon in its meaning. Combined with the lack of precise pronoun the sentence could be interpreted in numerous ways, thus any possible agents listening in would not gain any useful knowledge.

"Yes," Mycroft replied unnecessarily.

His PA's ability to know every precise movement of the Holmes family managed to astonish even him, but the question was phrased in such a way as to expect an answer and Mycroft, in direct counterpoint to his brother's abruptness, was always one to follow the social formalities. After all, it had taken years of painstaking study and assimilation during his youth to achieve such levels of social integration. To know all the little rules, etiquettes and patterns that governed humans allowed you to master them, and to master them allowed you to manipulate them. Knowing when to tilt your head in shame at a teacher, when to smile knowingly at a paramour, how to utilise phatic language to put one's pray at ease. And, more importantly, knowing those moments when discarding the rules will result in the ultimate impact on said prey. It was this ability to master human interactions that had not only allowed Mycroft to gain his current position in the world, but to also keep it.

A few minutes of silence had passed while his assistant loomed nearby. The heart monitor connected to Dr John Watson kindly counting out a beat for the current play to traverse by.

Beep, beep. Beep, beep.

Mycroft clenched his left fist as if in agitation, or some other unnamed emotion.

Beep, beep. Beep, beep.

He looked down at his fist, released his tense grip, and raised his barren face towards his assistant.

"Preparations will need to be made for the funeral."

Beep, beep. Beep, beep.

"I'll see to it immediately sir." Her face gave nothing away to the duplicity unfolding before the bedside of Sherlock's faithful Boswell.

And then, with a brief nod of condolence, she left the private hospital room, pulling out her personally adapted blackberry and instantly beginning her assigned task. By morning Sherlock Holmes would be officially dead, having run away from the scene of an explosion the week before he had finally been found by the police. He had confronted one of his enemy's lackeys in an empty warehouse; he had then been knocked unconscious and tied up before the place had been set on fire with him still inside. By the end of the week his remains would have been cremated, and by the time Dr John Watson awoke from his healing sleep all that would be left of the world's only consulting detective would be a small urn of ashes located in the Holmes' family vault. A cruelty perhaps, but a necessity. Mycroft's ability for reading people was as good as, if not better, than his brother and Mycroft knew that John Watson would wish to see the body before cremation. Being such a visceral man it would have been the only way he could come to terms with it. But just as Mycroft was certain that the burnt body of some treasonable traitor – who happened to share the same dimensions as Sherlock – would satisfy people such as Lestrade, he knew with equal certainty that John Watson wouldn't be. After all, there was a reason Sherlock had kept with John longer than any other flatmate.

Having succeeded in laying the groundwork for his plan to ensure Sherlock's ruse succeeded, Mycroft glanced at his fob watch. Mary, John's current girlfriend of only one month whom he had met during one of Sherlock's many cases, would be arriving in ten minutes. She had been visiting him every day, straight after work, and would sit by his bedside holding his hand while she went through her lesson plans for the next day at St Joseph's Primary School. For such a short relationship Mycroft thought her loyalty was to be admired – it very nearly matched John's own – and he made a mental note as he swept out of the hospital, his ever present umbrella tucked under his left arm, to help ensure the smooth running of their relationship. Such a steady, religious woman would be good for John Watson's mental stability over the next few years. She may even prevent John from realising the true depth of his loss; the love of a man he had never had the chance to own.

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><p>AN Alas I foresee further heartbreak for our dear Watson before things get better I'm afraid. Sherlock will eventually be making an appearance again, and it will eventually be slash. I know it's short but I hope you enjoyed it anyway and please, please review and say what you think! More shall come when the muse strikes or when the reviews motivate me :-p


	3. Chapter 3

AN: Was hoping to have this uploaded ages ago but then I lost my notebook :-S so here it is, better late than never. I also have an outline for the story now so I now where it's heading, albeit very slowly. If you have any ideas though please share!

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><p>shjw

**Chapter 3 - In Which Lies are Told.**

sh/jw

It had been the summer before Mycroft was to start at Eton, the first time he had covered for his younger brother. He could no longer recall the full details; how it had exactly happened, what Sherlock had been doing in the first place. But he could clearly remember the sharp acrid taste in the back of his throat when he realised what Sherlock had broken, the feel of sweat dripping down his back as his mind quickly calculated all possible scenarios resulting from this catastrophe, the feel of Sherlock's small hand in his as they had both stood before their father's wrath while Mycroft explained that it had been the new maid who had broken the priceless Ming vase and, fearful for her new position, had blamed Sherlock.

If Mycroft had known back then how many times he would have to cover for Sherlock over the years in steadily more elaborate ways, he might not have been so quick to lie. But Mycroft had chosen his path and what had followed was years of covering up failed experiments that had resulted in severe property damage in their ancestral homes; Sherlock's quickly spiralling descent into drug addiction during his informative years at Eton, culminating in his brief, but dramatic, stint at Oxford; and his catastrophic failure of a relationship with that foul Sebastian. Even once mother and father had passed away, when Mycroft may have finally been set free from his duty, Sherlock's decision to take up the frankly annoying hobby of being 'the world's only consulting detective' (aka running around after crazed civilians and the occasional police officer) had resulted in Mycroft's cover up jobs escalating into increasingly more dangerous and illegal ways.

Mycroft had considered on the rare afternoon when the world's politics were at a lull, whether he should bother calculating how many lies he had told, how many cover stories he had fabricated, how many people he had paid off, all in the name of a younger brother whose hand had once clasped his own, begging in manner if not in words, to save him from the world and later from himself. But Mycroft had known the futility of such actions, for even though the number would surely have been beyond excessive, the knowledge of such would not, and could not, change a thing. After all, Sherlock – for all his blustering and arguing – was family, and the only family Mycroft had left.

And so, as John stood before him glorious in his true and honourable rage, his sheer presence too large for the small living room in 221b Baker Street that he was currently striding to and fro like a caged beast, the lies spilled from Mycroft's tongue, filling the room with their shadows. As naturally as a spider spinning his web, Mycroft spun his tale of consuming fire and building panic; of cruel criminals and a harrowing hero; of hearts broken and a bereaving brother.

Finally Mycroft saw the moment when John became entangled in his web of deceit – his eyes losing their fervent passion and spark, his whole demeanour slumping in acceptance. Suddenly he looked every bit the small, middle aged man he was. The broken tin soldier cast aside. More importantly, his expressive face broadcast to all that was watching the fate and demise of Sherlock Holmes.

With his work done he quickly left, not in the mood to continue this sinister play, as John sunk onto the sofa where Sherlock's purple dressing gown still lay untouched.

After all these years of lying it was almost too easy.

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><p>"Sir?"<p>

The sailor hesitantly approached the lone man who had boarded their cargo ship five nights ago off the coast of France. He was supposedly an old friend of the captain, though the sailor had yet to see any evidence of such. Apparently he had business in Xiamen, their next port of call, but had missed his boat's departure and after hearing his tale the captain had straight away offered him free passage. The man had proceeded to keep himself to himself, barely venturing from his small cabin except at night where he world gaze for hours out upon the restless waters and the watchful stars, wrapped in a thick beige jumper at least two sizes too big around the waist, yet much too short in length, leaving a thin sliver of pale smooth skin between his sleeves and the leather gloves he constantly wore.

"Sir," the sailor tried again to gain his notice.

"Sir, we're about to hit a storm. It would be best if you'd be coming inside now where it'd be safe."

The man's profile was lit momentarily by a flash of lightning in the distance, highlighting his patrician nose and dark curly locks.

"I will be fine here good man," he replied finally. "After all, there is nothing now that can harm me."

He gave a cheerless chuckle as another flash of lightning struck in the nearby sky and the ship rolled sharply on the crest of a wave.

"Sir, I must be insisting…" the sailor shouted above the storm.

"And I am insisting that I will be fine," the man interrupted, turning suddenly towards the sailor, his dark, tired eyes boring into him, leaving him bereft of air, before he quickly twirled back to look once again upon the endless waves.

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><p>"John…" Mary took a tentative step towards the clearly grieving man. Her heart ached for him. Although there was never any love lost between her and Sherlock, no one deserved the fate he had been delivered; to die alone, amongst flames. That he had most likely died from smoke inhalation before the hungry flames enveloped his body leaving only an unrecognisable husk of a man was clearly not much of a consolation to John – although the strange, secretive woman who had come to tell him so seemed to think it should.<p>

Mary took a deep breath before letting it out quickly. John was currently dressed in a purple, satin dressing gown, curled in a ball on the sofa in the living room. The curtains had been drawn shut, all of the lights smashed and papers and books strewn across the floor around him. Mary reached out a small hand towards his mussed up blond hair, hovering for a few seconds in uncertainty before withdrawing it back to her side again.

"Tea," she exclaimed, before moving determinedly into the kitchen.

As she walked through the archway she tried to contain her gasp of surprise. Although to a stranger it may not have looked it, the kitchen had been left completely untouched. The apparatus for an experiment sat on the table ready to begin, left as if the owner had merely popped out for a few minutes and would be back soon. Various petri dishes littered the kitchen worktops and, as Mary opened what she had assumed was the tea caddy, a few preserved fingers were revealed. She quickly put them back in the cupboard from which they came followed by another heavy sigh; clearly helping John through this terrible time would be harder than she thought, although she quickly scolded herself for thinking such selfish thoughts. Her sweet, loving John needed her and she would ensure she was there for him however dark his moods became.

She gave a quick glance around at her unsavoury surroundings; first call of duty would be to get John out of 221B Baker Street, and as soon as possible. It was not healthy being around such prominent reminders of a life that was no more. The sooner he could move in with Mary, the sooner they could start looking to the future – together. After all, only pain and regret awaited those who chose to live in the past.

TBC

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><p>So there it is. Not completely happy with it so may edit it again at a later date. Please review, it really does motivate me to write more when I know what people think! And constructive criticism is always appreciated.<p> 


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